Swamped
by aragonite
Summary: A tribute to all the hard-working men and women who deal with their careers and parenthood at the same time. They ARE my heroes! Based or shall I say inspired by an uninvited slimy houseguest...COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_This is for all the hardworking folk who must juggle parenting with work. Based on a true story...loosely..._

-

Martin Lestrade had been trying to balance lying in with a bad tooth against missing out on a school trip to the Serpentine. It wasn't all that good of a trade, he thought sadly. On the other hand, it was a golden chance to start his studies without his brother getting in the way.

Absorbed in the joys of geometry and satisfied to call it an evening well spent, Martin was in the process of pushing more clove oil into his throbbing tooth when the downstairs door banged shut. Nicholas' heavy tread rattled up the carpeted steps, heavier than usual. And awkward. Martin winced as the vibrations of his larger sibling's tread vibrated in the sore spot inside his jaw.

"Martin!" The younger boy puffed slightly, a fruit-box balanced under one arm. Martin quickly put his book down Geometry would have to wait again. "You'll never believe what I found!"

"Knowing you, Nick, I'm not going to guess." Martin said dubiously. "It's alive, isn't it?"

Nicholas scowled at him. "Stop being so stuffy. I'll be glad when Tad takes that tooth out." He set the box on the floor gently; it was damp and glistened faintly on the sides. "Wish't he'd done it this morning." Their father had up and left for work long before both boys were up, and alas before Martin's tooth started acting.

"All right, Nick. What is it then?"

"Take a look for yourself."

"Bloom-" Martin made a face like a jack o'lantern. "I'm not looking until you tell me what it is!"

"But…" Nicholas' face collapsed. "That's just it, Martin! You _have_ to look at it! I don't know what it is!"

"Oh, don't be stupid. Bird? Fish? Reptile? Amphibian? Mammal? Start there."

Nicholas gnawed on his bottom lip. "I suppose amphibian."

"You suppose?" Martin gaped. "Nick, what's the matter with you! It can't be that hard! Not for you!"

Nicholas sighed. With a martyred air he knelt and pulled the top off the box.

Martin looked inside.

He was without words for almost a minute.

"Nick," He said very quietly. "You found that in the Serpentine?"

"Well, not me really. Tommy and Georgette found it. They were afraid Mrs. Harrister would catch them with it so I said I'd take it."

"So she didn't notice you?"

"She didn't notice anything as soon as we got there. Some sort of accident on the other side of the lake. Had her spyglass all over the place."

"I'm surprised Tommy didn't try to make you pay for it."

"He took my lunch."

"Better not tell Mamm. She'll be furious."

"I'm not stupid." Nicholas sniffed. "Well? What is it?"

Martin sighed. "I think we'd better go find some books."

"Well we can't leave it in here." Nicholas was already protective of his new friend. "His skin's going to dry out for certain."

"All right…" Martin rubbed the back of his neck, unaware of how much like his father he looked. "Let's get a bucket."

"He'll crawl out of the bucket."

"You're right…we'll have to think of something…"

-

In Scotland Yard, their father was dealing with his own special variety of throbbing pain. It wore a coal-black suit, and smoked a cherrywood pipe. Dr. Watson had already warned him about the cherrywood pipe and its indicator of precarious emotional states.

"The tracks are as unmistakable as your own left foot, Lestrade."

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade spoke with as much patience as he was capable of at the moment, but what he really wanted to do was pick up his hundred-weight oak desk and bash the amateur with it like an unrealistic but satisfying hammer. Beside him Watson was patiently taking notes and adopting that sympathetic listening aura doctors were famous for. "I can say the tracks are as you say in my report. But when it comes to the time where I must stand up in court and say so…they're going to tear me apart for that approach. There's more than one man with an uneven limp who favours his left side in London!"

Mr. Holmes was not impressed. Then again, he never was. "You lack belief in my abilities, and I am merely employing what is obvious."

"Obvious to you, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade had been insulted by some of the highest dignitaries off Westminster, and he could certainly weather the scorn of a Holmes. "But I repeat. The tracking you describe will not prove it is your man. We need more information."

"Lestrade," and here Holmes was using his special tone of voice, the one that wasn't nearly as scalding as it had been before Watson (bless the man) had come into his life. "There are a few things I should like to point out to you in regarding the specialty crimes—to wit, exotic animal trade in a most un-exotic climate..."

-

"You know," Gregson mused thoughtfully once Lestrade thought he might have his office back to himself, "I believe that man likes you."

"Are you still using last year's calendar, Gregson?" Lestrade asked wearily. "Fool's Day falls on the week-end this year."

"You laugh at me, but you'll notice I never have to buy calendars—just my appointment books."

Lestrade didn't laugh. He was smart enough not to cultivate the open hostility of Mr. Holmes, and he wasn't stupid enough to laugh at Gregson for anything. Ever since learning the calendar repeated itself every twelve years, Gregson's ingenious Scrooge-like slant of mind had inspired him to collect and re-use the same twelve calendars over and over. Since they corresponded to the Asian year, he kept track of his years that way.

"Waste not, want not Lestrade."

"That's one devil of a choice, Gregson." Lestrade snorted.

Gregson threw a wadded-up ball of paper at him. Lestrade blocked it with a boxing strike that was best left on the street and never seen inside the ring before the judges.

Lestrade finally sighed. It was the breaking moment Gregson had been waiting for.

"Exotic animal smugglers stealing from each other." He muttered. "Gregson, haven't we enough to do? Shouldn't murder be our priority?"

"If this keeps up, we might have a murder on top of it all." Gregson pointed out. "The Crown won't be happy to see some sort of outsider species of somewhat moving in. They've got too many friends among the Royal College, and the Museums, and the Historical Societies, and the Parks…don't forget the little forest we've got left."

"But animals!" Lestrade made a grasping motion in the air. "I swear to you, it is a good thing I am not the fool Mr. Holmes thinks I am, because I'll tell you why he's really upset at me. That shipment he was paid to find has vanished. And it isn't the fact that things didn't go according to his clockwork plan, Gregson…it's the fact that he so far does not have the satisfaction of solving the problem for himself…my word, he's as bad as the stumper everyone's got in the family…the one who spends his life solving those little puzzles in the papers or joining encryptogram clubs. There's one in every family, Gregson! Mark you, Mr. Holmes is the one for his!"

Gregson was very good at saving his laughter for later. "You might be right about that."

-

The water-bucket was far too small. The rubbish bin was already full of rubbish. The double sinks Mrs. Collins had paid so much money for in the old kitchen was too shallow.

For a moment it looked like the old hand-washing sink propped against the wall—the one their father used for tanning Uncle Bartram's eternal supply of rabbit skins—would suffice. But once it was cleaned out and filled with water, the new occupant began a slow, patient attempt to climb out.

"Is that all he does?" Martin asked at last. Exasperation put hands on his hips, just like his father though he didn't know it. "Try to get out? There's not enough room in that brain for another thought?"

"I don't think his brain is all that big to begin with. Look at the size of his head." Nicholas offered. "What if we gave him something to eat?"

"You're just saying that because I heard your stomach growl just now." Martin sighed. "Right. Go see if there's something in Mrs. Collins' vegetables. I'll watch him till you get back, then we get him in something bigger.

"Or," Martin added thoughtfully as he watched the prisoner's shortlegged movements, "Something _slicker_."

-

Gregson lowered his paper just as Lestrade practically kicked the front door open. Other Yarders took one look at his face and scattered. The rest scattered anyway. The little detective stamped through with a face most men would have deemed priceless had they lost the will to live. His clothing hung about him in a decidedly damp state, and there was an odour to that dampness that had its own signature.

"Pleasant day at the Serpentine, Lestrade?"

Lestrade's dark eyes narrowed to the point where they were just about to strike sparks off the nearest flint. "Remind me again why we're helping Mr. Holmes."

"We owe him for the Stolen Sea Monster Affair."

"Surely we don't owe him _that _much! It was a bloody forgery of whale bones and--and--I think the beak off a giant squid!"

"Well…_we_ don't. Us working-class types can survive quite well without ever stepping foot into a museum…but it made the Palace very happy, and he made us take the credit for the case."

"Have you ever," Lestrade put his hands on Gregson's desk and leaned forward, collecting a doubtless itchy pool of the Serpentine on the desk, "wondered why Mr. Holmes insists on giving us the credit for these cockamamie cases? Have you _never_ woken up in the middle of the night and asked yourself, 'why is it, self, that a man with enough pride to stock the East India Company in overweening arrogance, lets us poor idiotic, totally devoid of reason policemen take the credit for cases he solves?'"

Gregson watched the pool of itchy water spread. "Can't say I had the time or sleeplessness to, Lestrade."

"So he can cash his chips in, Gregson. So he can cash his chips in when a case looks like it's going to be a little too muddy. Or dirty. Or slimy. Or he needs an arrest warrant. Or something else he can't do." Lestrade spoke calmly enough, but his eyes were still shooting out sparks like twin Catharine Wheels. "And did you know what I found out today when I was back at the Serpentine, searching the trails he bloody well insisted I follow?"

"You fell in?" Gregson guessed.

"Nooo, Gregson. I found there'd been a wrecked wagon and quite a lot of tossed small boxes and crates into the water. All of them were large enough for carrying small, portable animals in…but they were all…empty. So where the blazes did the contraband, or whatever it is you're calling stolen animals, go??"

-

"Mum's home!" Nicholas lit up.

"She won't feed you," Martin reminded him as their mother swept into the foyer.

"When's supper, mum?" Nicholas asked hopefully.

"The same as it always is," Clea said absently. "You had a large luncheon, young man. I took in the fact you'd be outside all day. You shouldn't be hungry."

Nicholas wilted. His expression was pathetic. Martin was glad their mother couldn't see it.

"Martin, how's that tooth?" She gently tipped his head back to take a quick peek. "Mmn. Are you certain you don't want me to pull it out?"

"Yes, mum!" Martin barely avoided a panicky note, but he did pull a hasty step back. "Yes…thank you…it can wait until Tad comes home."

"Well, all right, but if I see you rolling on the floor you'd best believe I'm taking the pliers to that!"

It was Martin's turn to wilt. They watched their mother go up to their rooms, humming to herself.

"I'm hungry." Nicholas said in the quiet.

Martin could well believe it. His brother took after their mother's side of the family in all ways, and that included a specially designed gullet that could eat large portions of just about anything, six times a day.

Someday, their father often muttered, Nicholas would be able to pay them back for all the eating with a career as a circus strongman…but in the meantime, Nicholas was already fading from hunger. Martin knew what would happen: he'd give himself away at the dinner table by eating far beyond his usual means and then there would be Mr. Deal to pay because if there was something their mother despised, it was her hard-won cooking going to a destination she hadn't intended for…and swapping a thick sandwich for an unidentified species of amphibian that was no doubt the ugliest thing seen in England since the creation of the natterjack wasn't going to impress her at all.

"Maybe we can get something to eat," he offered.

Nicholas drooped even further. His stomach growled in the wake of his mother's usual perfume, which was whatever she'd been doing at the cooking school. Cinnamon-sugar, vanilla, ginger, and pumpkin-pie spice mingled with groundnut-sauce. Indian cooking again. Probably something with vegetables and a bit of chicken.

"Let's ask Mum if we can go outside," Martin said carefully, "to…I dunno…if we can find something for Tad's birthday before he comes home?"

Nicholas looked doubtful. "She'll want a receipt." He said glumly. "At least the pawn-ticket."

"I got a few," Martin held out a handful of loose coins. "What we need is to get back outside with her approval. And Mr. Barrett's got his eel-stall up. We could ask him what Tad likes while we drink a cup of broth."

"Extra vinegar?" Nicholas breathed.

"Course." Martin sniffed. "Do I look like a girl?"

-

Clea Lestrade heard her husband's familiar tread at the doorstep and peeked down the stairs to smile down. Her smile faded.

"Have one of those days again, love?" She guessed.

"Cleabihan…" Geoffrey's response was in Breton. It had to be. Mrs. Collins was just coming in off the side-passage, and she was no love of cursing.

"Youngster," the old woman sniffed, "_someday_ I will learn what those words mean. Best enjoy yourself now." She bustled off with a high pile of fresh curtains in her arms.

"…_tripledie_." Geoffrey said under his breath.

Clea chuckled. "If that's the best you can do, the day must've been a hard one." She had whisked a clean towel up and wiped his face off. "Get yourself in the bath, then. There's the smell of the Serpentine all around you."

"Good thing I didn't have my good coat on." He smiled. "All right, just let me get a change of clothes—"

"Don't go in our bath," Clea warned. "I'm soaking the muslins in there. Just use other bath for now. It's not like anyone uses it anyway. And see to Martin. He's got a bad tooth and it needs to come out before the poor boy loses any more of his appetite."

To Be continued...


	2. Sinking

Chapter Two: Sinking

_This one is also in dedication to all frustrated parents who have smart Middle-schoolers with a fiendish competitive streak. After listening to a ten-year old discuss the Late Triassic Period after going into the types of tank used in World War I, it is really hard for me to judge how much a determined child does NOT know…and no, this child is not in the Gifted class. He didn't test high enough._

-

"Let's see that tooth, mab," Lestrade tilted Martin's head back and the boy opened his mouth. "Hmmm…doesn't look like it's just going bad…you've got another tooth wanting to come in." He hesitated. "Hurts, eh?"

"Yes, sir." Martin said softly.

Martin rarely complained about anything. Lestrade weighed that, and went to the shelf for a small coil of string kept in a jar of live vinegar. He strung it between his first three fingers like a cat's cradle. Martin opened his mouth wider and closed his eyes against the possible sting of vinegar.

"Too bad it's so close to the eye tooth," his father said. "But it ought to fill in soon enough." It was over in a flash; Lestrade had spun the tooth out with the absent skill of the long-practiced. Martin breathed in and went for the water to rinse out. It was a mild day, so he spat out the window.

"Mrs. Collins isn't going to like you doing that." Nicholas said worriedly.

"It's just water and blood." Martin answered calmly. "Good for the soil."

"Hmn. No wonder it was hurting…" Tad peered with a critical eye into the open space. "You've got a tursh1 coming in…well, shouldn't cause much problems once it finishes." He shook out the string, rinsed it from the water-pitcher, and returned it to the vinegar-jar.

"All right, then. Anything else?" No. Lestrade rose up and handed the tooth back to his son. "I'm going to clean the Serpentine off me before it sets up any deeper."

Martin and Lestrade traded looks of awareness and dawning horror as their father walked down the hall with a basket of clean clothes under his arm.

"Maybe we should—" Martin began

There was a soft sound, like a bundle of willow withies striking a hardwood floor.

Nicholas cringed. His mouth slapped shut.

"Nicholas," their father cleared his throat. "Martin?"

"Yes, Taddiz?"

"Don't you Taddiz me, Nicholas Cheatham. Did someone magically connect our plumbing to the Thames or some underground lake?"

Found out, the boys obediently joined their father in the bath. "No, sir. I got it at the Serpentine today."

"Oh, dear Lord…" Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment, seeking the peace of utter silence. "How long has it been in there?"

"Since he brought it home, Tad." Martin supplied helpfully.

Lestrade decided there was something maddeningly humourous about this…if one was already mad to begin with. He watched as the strange creature slid slowly from one side of the bath to the other. It looked like the bottom of the Thames after a particularly vicious tidal shift, but it was weirdly graceful and patient as it waited for a non-existent escape to suddenly appear. The flatness of the creature was somewhat against the way he'd design an animal (good thing that was something no one had yet put him to). The tail reminded him of a paddle crossed with a ship's rudder. Eyes smaller than the head of a sewing-pin never seemed to blink.

"Martin, I want you to consider the fact that your old Taddiz has not your advantage in schooling. What is it?"

"We're not certain," Martin continued to be helpful. "It's not a native species of amphibian for Great Britain…well…" his voice trailed off.

"Go on, continue the sentence."

"Well…I was thinking, what if it was something that hasn't been discovered yet?"

"Wouldn't _that_ just be wonderful." Tad closed his eyes as if in pain. "I can see it now. Bad enough your brother wound up in a breech position unknown to all the physicians from here to the Arctic Circle…it would be _just like him_ to find a new species in the middle of London."

The Serpentine wasn't exactly the middle of London, but Martin pretty well understood what his father was getting at. Nicholas was one of those fortunate sorts that could just attract…news. Better yet, he survived them.

"It does look a little different." Martin agreed tactfully.

"_Different_, lad? If the Morlocks had a pampered housepet, it would be something along that draft."

Martin and Nicholas traded another look. Their father rarely discussed his reading, but somehow they weren't surprised to see he was managing to keep up on the H.G. Wells' serial in _The New Review_.

"Looks like a Scrooge-bath for me now…Nicholas, if you wouldn't mind finding that bucket we use to haul the drinking water in when the pipes are out?"

-

"First of all, we are not going to tell your mother the upstairs bath is occupied." Lestrade turned from hanging up the telephone and had his hands on his hips and the sternest of expressions on his face as his two sons looked up at him with appropriately conspiratorial faces. "I'm putting out the REPAIRS sign on the door. As your mother can't soak muslins forever, we're using the other bath until that thing is out of here. Whatever it is. The zoo said they'd be pleased to identify it—and no, Nicholas, you _cannot_ ask them for a job!" Long practice on this particular subject ensured their father could keep a straight face. "We've been over this before, and I will be _happy_ to repeat myself on the codes of the Child Labor Laws!"

"Yes, sir." Nicholas was freshly subdued. "You don't have to, Tad. I've got it all memorized."

"I should hope so, since I've had to recite them to you once a week since you were five…Now. We're having company this evening. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I needn't tell you to be good…but I'll be satisfied if you behave well." _Or at least, behave as well as two boys with Cheatham blood are capable of…_

For his part, the Lestrade bloodline was astonishingly low in crime considering the company they kept…and he for one wanted to keep it that way.

"Are they staying for supper?" Nicholas asked hopefully.

Lestrade blinked. "I offered, but I don't know if they will or not. Why?"

"Because Taffy says Mr. Holmes never finishes his plate. It makes good left-overs for the Irregulars."

"Taffy is an Irregular?" Lestrade guessed. "Why am I not surprised you're hobnobbing with the urchins in your spare time."

"You hobnob with Gipsies." Martin pointed out for the sake of argument.

"That's different. They never have left-overs." Lestrade belatedly wondered how this conversation had ever started.

"Never?" Nicholas couldn't live without left-overs.

"Well, they leave the broth in the kettle…if something frightens them in the night they throw it into the fire to hide in the darkness. Which means you can just _smell_ where they are by the scorched peppers and onions." Just mentioning food seemed to bring tears in Nicholas' eyes. "You're really fading there, aren't you?" He sighed. "Come on, there's Old Barrett's eels by the corner. He's good for a cup of broth."

"So we're not telling Mamm about it," Martin mused.

"After all the things _she's_ brought here, we ought to get some of our own back once in a while." Their father muttered. "Besides. You know your mother and what she'd say."

"Yes…'doesn't look edible.'" Nicholas quoted past experiences.

"If Mr. Holmes hears that, I'll loose the last negative integer on my credibility with him." Their father sighed again and put some money in Nicholas' hands. "Get yourself some of Barrett's eels. It should do you until supper."

-

Clea looked up as her husband came down into the kitchen, clean and freshly dressed. "You took long enough. Were you trying to dig the lake out of your ears?"

"Something like that." He paused at the sink for a kiss. "Tooth is out, and another one's on the way. We can say hello to the usual fever and crankiness out of our oldest tonight."

"Ah, at least we _know_ what the problem is." Clea grinned as she mixed a large bowl of steaming vegetables. "Just as well I've got a husband who can pull teeth. They never let me do it!"

"That's because your skill comes from the Cheathams, generations of wrestlers." Geoffrey pointed out logically. "I learned my trade from a Plymouth blacksmith."

"Are you saying a blacksmith has more finesse than a Cheatham? You'd be right." They laughed together. "Ah, I shouldn't complain. The boys have been working hard today. I suppose that's what boredom does for a boy. They've picked all the insects out of Mrs. Collins' vegetables and asked to take out the rubbish."

"Good of them. Are they looking to earn wages?"

"Probably. You do have a birthday coming up."

"Which I never celebrate."

"One of these days you'll have to."

"What's the point? I'll just be called out to some awful place like Dartmoor, or the wilds of Cornwall, or the frozen wasteland of Mt. Snowdon or Windsor Castle. No, scrap that. With my luck they'll send me to Castle Glamis in the height of spook season. Someone will drop dead of a heart attack, and there'll be a murder charge against someone who knowingly got him a vacation there and stuck him in the most haunted room in the pile."

"You won't get out of a birthday forever, Geoffrey. Why don't you go on and enjoy the paper before our guests arrive?"

"I may, but I needn't bother. Mr. Holmes will have had the whole thing memorized. Except for the _New Review_. Has it come yet?"

"What is he needing of you again?" Clea wondered.

"My casebook of those wretched zoo-peddlers. I hesitate to call them salesmen. For some reason, Mr. Holmes thinks there's a tie between those glorified street-sweepers and the people in charge of that latest nonsense involving stolen animals." Geoffrey suddenly sideswiped a carrot from beneath Clea's hands. He was gone before her squawk finished hanging in the air.

"Men and boys," Clea said to herself.

Speaking of, Martin and Nicholas stamped back, flushed from the outdoors. An empty and clean rubbish bin swing between them.

"Good, boys. Mrs. Collins will be pleased with you." Clea smiled. "You really have been working hard."

"Thanks, mamm." Both boys beamed. "It wasn't hard."

"Set yourselves up with your books. Supper at the usual time—slow down up those stairs, you imps! Company over for dinner, so mind your manners!"

-

"Well what happened to your other pencil?" Martin snapped.

"I dunno. I suppose it's around here somewhere." Nicholas began looking about their room with nothing that resembled enthusiasm. "I don't know why pencils have to be so important. They don't have a thing to do with being outdoors."

"Tell that to Henry Thoreau. He could afford his wilderness life because the family had a new pencil invented."

"Trust you to keep your head full of strange stuff."

Martin growled something to himself and tried to return to his spelling book. He had decided long ago that the tiny bit of Greek he would need would just have to be memorized and gutted through.

"Hello, boys." Their mother paused in the doorway, and that pause…and look…and the way her hands were sitting on her hips crushed their hopes. "So the bath is out, is it?"

Martin sneaked a peek at Nicholas. Unspoken but unanimous was the decision to take the blame and spare their father, who would still be needed for future escapades.

And after that clever remark, Martin was willing to let Nicholas (who had started this Sisyphean ball rolling anyway), begin with the blame.

"It was lost and hungry. I brought it home." Nicholas tried.

Clea let the silence drag out.

Nicholas began to sweat. Some mothers believed in caning, birching, whipping, or spanking. Their mother was a different sort. She liked the punishment to fit the crime. Whatever that would entail was not something the boys wanted to think about.

"Well." She said at last. "I don't like finding surprises like this. First of all, I want you to tell your father about it. Secondly, I was going to bring up a treat before supper…but I don't think I will. Lastly, you're to stay in your rooms until supper—I know you're earning money with working in the vegetables, but your father will be doing that alone this evening."

"Yes, mamm." Both boys bowed their heads.

1 Second tooth


	3. Stuck

Chapter Three: Stuck

Watson was more than ready to eat something by the time they set their direction for Paddington. Following Holmes for the past 24 hours in nooks and crannies of London (that were probably overlooked for a reason) was hard on the nerves.

Hinting to Holmes that Lestrade had married an excellent cook (a fact that Holmes was far from ignorant of), fell on ears that weren't as deaf so much as they were oblivious.

"One sample," Holmes kept muttering. His stick swung back and forth like a hazardous metronome. "Only one sample…"

Watson didn't know what that meant…or what it was supposed to mean. Holmes was never forthcoming. There were times when Watson merely accepted this. Other times Watson had the impression that Holmes wanted him to observe and see for himself, and hopefully learn his methods.

And then there were times like _this_ one, where it was rather obvious to even the blind that Holmes was so locked up in his own mind that he kept forgetting to talk in a way that would give people the vaguest clue.

"Mrs. Lestrade has an excellent hand with roasts." Watson broke in—not with any hope, but there was the tiny desire to see if something would happen.

"It's a matter of mathematics." Click. Holmes' stick threatened to shatter the aged pavement. A dog shied away on its leash.

"A palate to be proud of. It's so good of her to open that cooking-school and use the revenue off her meals in teaching those girls. One will never run out of employment in the service field."

"The real concern is discerning the actual cargo. Would it be something that already has a high market-value in London?"

"Before they graduate, the girls must be able to write their own name, do simple sums, and stuff the animal of their choice. Goose is popular."

"If it were worth something to the common man, we may as well give it up for lost."

"I agree." Watson gave up.

A maid of all work was sweeping the front step as they showed up. She was young and hardened with labour, but her eyes were calm as she looked upon them.

"Hello, sirs," she said when they were introduced. "The Inspector is out back with the garden. You can go in through the snicket; I unlocked the gate just now."

Holmes thanked her absently; no doubt he remembered just in time that courtesy was a simple way of letting people know you heard them; otherwise they'd be repeating the same inane things over and over. Watson tipped his finger to his hatbrim with a smile as he followed Holmes.

"Rather broad for a snicket," he commented as they walked through the dark passage. It was almost enough to let them walk side by side, and the trod was clean and dry. Someone regularly paid to place cobbles and small cinders down to keep the mud and muck from moving in.

"Part of the older London suburbs, I would think." Holmes answered casually. "It's quite possible this narrow passage was once a regular road."

The garden opened up from the darkness in a bald explosion of wallflowers and greenery. It was a miniature garden that would do a de' Medici proud. Even Holmes paused to take in the sight of what had to be years of obsessive work by many able hands and an excellent organization.

Lestrade was almost in the middle of it, but his back was to the duo and he was shouting upward to two young faces hanging out of a second-story window.

-

"But, Tad!" Martin shouted. "Nick says the Block Theory of the Universe is Rot!"

"Did not!" Nicholas shouted back. "I said it was rubbish!"

"It's the same thing!"

"It is not!"

"Boys!" Lestrade bellowed. "We don't _know_ if it's rot or rubbish, because it is a THEORY!

"But Mr. Wells believes in it!"

"Smart people can believe silly things!" Lestrade wondered dimly how he'd ever gotten involved with this mediation. "It's that simple, both of you! Just because someone else believes it, doesn't mean _you're_ required to—we have cane-armed schoolmasters for that!"

"Time Travel isn't about the Block Theory." Martin's face resembled a small thundercloud. "It's about the concept of time as the fourth dimension."

"It _can't_ work!" Nicholas argued right back at him. "God's outside of Time! You can't have time travel without God!"

"Oh, for…" Lestrade leaned on his hoe and put his head down for a moment. "That's it! No more of Mr. Wells!"

That got the unification of groans. "But we like reading it!"

"And the last chapter was banned!" Nicholas chimed in. "It's been two months without knowing what's going to happen!"1

"You've had _two blessed months_ to stock up on Eternalism, and if you'd had more than a surface interest in that sensationalist literature, you'd know that God would have the concept of the Block Theory, but we as lesser beings, are scat out of luck with the comprehension part of it all!" Lestrade shouted back up. "I'll pay for your magazine subscriptions, but hanged if I will if you're just reading the popular fiction bits!"

"Oh, but Tad…"

"If you hadn't fallen asleep in Chapel last month, you would have understood the sermon on Eternalism, _and you wouldn't have this quarrel_!!" Lestrade made a gesture that was clear. The heads vanished; the window shut.

Lestrade noticed he had company. "Brother against Brother," he said by way of explanation. "We take them to the most educated pastor west of the confluence, and what do they do but use the time for napping."

"Brother Jerome?" Watson grinned. "I wonder how he can continue to justify his philosophical sermons."

"Simple. He's also the schoolmaster for most of the congregation, and the only pastor within twelve streets who actually wants to teach the children Greek and Hebrew." Lestrade shook his head and moved to hang the hoe up by its weapon-head on a wooden hook into the wall. His gloves followed a moment later. "We'll be cutting through the kitchen on the way to my study, but at least we'll know what we're eating tonight."

-

"H'lo, dear…Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes." Clea Lestrade nodded from behind a large steaming Roman Pot of something that smelled…expensive. "You're in for an early treat, gentlemen. My brothers sent us a sea-turtle this morning. I hope you like bisque."

Holmes nearly stumbled in his stride, and Watson, who had fancied himself used to the Lestrades (and the Cheathams), found himself thrown again.

Lestrade only paused and scowled in thought.

"Sea turtle? Cutler and Wallace?"

"The same."

"Where were they that they managed to run into a sea turtle?"

"Knowing those two oil-dropped lamps? They probably sailed over the thing on one of their sea-jaunts." Clea said ominously. "It was certainly in a fine mood before I killed it."

"Did you save the shells? You know Nicholas…"

"Well I know Nicholas." Clea said wearily.

"How did you kill it?" Watson made bold to ask.

She looked at him from over the table. "The usual way." She said as if that was all quite obvious.

Watson didn't know what the usual way was. There were no turtles in England, so they were bound to be for a unique experience—well, another unique experience—soon.

-

They made their way up the first landing when another fussing came about. The boys were up on the second floor, hovering over the railing as they demanded their father's time.

"No!" Lestrade bellowed up the stairs: "For the last time! _You can't touch it!_ We don't know what it is or where it came from!"

"I don't think it has any teeth, Papa," Martin said meekly.

"It does so," Nicholas said stubbornly. "It bit a worm in half." He made a motion reminiscent of his mother with the cleaver.

"You don't need _teeth_ to bite a _worm_ in half." Martin responded with a touch of superiority.

"Boys, listen to me!" Their father was using his particular voice that made grown Constables quiver. "Until the zoo comes for it, you're going to make certain it doesn't even crawl out of the tub, much less escape the bath! Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," was the meek response.

"Can we feed it some more?" Nicholas piped up timidly.

"F—what have you been feeding it?"

"Lots of things. It seems to like the snails crawling up Mrs. Collins' lettuces."

"And the slugs." Martin added. "Doesn't really care for the maggots unless they're still wiggling."

"Feed it till it pops then." Lestrade rolled his eyes with a groan. He turned back to his ersatz guests. "I'm sorry about that, gentlemen," he apologized. "Never a dull moment with a budding naturalist in the house."

"No doubt." Mr. Holmes, who had iron control, was able to say. Watson looked far gone in his attempts not to laugh. "It does sound like they're managing an excellent campaign of pest-control."

"Only to suit themselves." Lestrade assured them. "Here we are." He sighed his relief as he pressed open the door to the study.

As far as such things went, Lestrade lived well. Not like a gentleman by any means; but the study's single shelf of books was obviously well-used and carefully treated. The desk was just like it was at Scotland Yard: neat, bare, and tightly organized. A table in the back with schoolbooks carefully stacked on each side spoke of the children. There was no paper on the walls; a jarring absence in the otherwise conservative room. The panels were wood, old, and polished in linseed.

The room clearly doubled for a guest bed. Noting the long settee that could easily double for sleeping arrangements, and the potted-plant stand was also a small chest of drawers long enough for a temporary visitor, Watson gave points for thrift and efficiency.

"Hold on…the casebook's up here…" Lestrade toed a step-stool out from a corner and stretched to the top of the shelf. Holmes caught the heavy book easily. "What you're looking for should be somewhere in the middle to last part…" The Yarder was trying to keep his skepticism for the whole matter out of his voice.

"This should be all that I require, Lestrade." Holmes was already opening the book. His grey eyes shot over page after page like a wildfire over dry grasslands. Lestrade looked at Watson from over Holmes' shoulder, and shrugged his.

"Care for a drink, doctor?"

"Thank you, Lestrade."

_Plump_. Holmes had claimed the settee, all the better to bend vulture-like, over Lestrade's book. Lestrade prayed his rooms would not suffer too much with this houseguest, and found the applejack.

"Sorry, Papa," Martin hung in the doorway for a moment. "Could we have that rotten meat Mum was saving for the crab-fishing?"

"What are you going to do with—oh, never mind. Go ahead…" Lestrade waved him off, and then thought to yelp in his wake: "If you feed it to death we might have to pay for it!"

"Sounds as though you've an interesting day, Lestrade." Watson commented.

"Fairly typical, actually. The boys—one in particular—is always coming home with some sort of wild animal we have to identify by book or a call to the zoo."

"Ah, all boys are like that." Watson smiled, possibly at fond memories; there was nothing like a grimace to his recollections.

"Not _all_ boys." Lestrade warned. "Nicholas is a class in himself."

In perfect timing, one of the children—Watson guessed Nicholas—roared in young outrage. "Push it back! Push it back!" Something made an ungainly splash.

Martin groaned. "Nick, _you _clean that up!"

Lestrade resolutely squared his shoulders and pushed the door back open. His martyred sigh floated after him as he made to the bath.

"Holmes?"

"Hmn?"

"How does one kill a turtle?"

"I have no idea." Holmes said absently. "Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Lestrade."

1 The boys are referring to the infamous May, 1895 chapter that was blocked from The New Review on the grounds it was too shocking. The Time Traveller discovers the Eloi have devolved even further to a timid rabbitlike creature and he kills one to eat before recognizing it.


	4. Slithy

One thing about Lestrade. He was meticulous and neat. Holmes had flipped through an entire month in a matter of minutes; daily logs, notations, crime…descriptions of a large and variable sort, their common ground only being their desire to make a living by less than honest means.

It helped that he was seeking such an exclusive area. There just weren't very many men (or women) in London who made a criminal career in animals.

The man also had a bit of an unsung talent for describing people in the privacy of his own mind. Holmes observed page after page of rather intimidating adjectives and was mildly disappointed to see he had (so far) not even gleaned a single mention of himself.

"Wash your hands, Nicholas!" Lestrade sharply lowered his finger to the bath down the hallway. "And wash them _again_ before supper! Up to the elbows!" He explained under his breath to Watson: "The last time he brought something home, it was carrying a rash."

"Lovely." Watson opined. "So, may I ask what sort of unexpected guest your sons brought home?"

"Ask? By all means ask." Lestrade groaned. "But as for _telling_ you…I'm afraid I'll be no help. Some sort of amphibian."

"It can't be that hard." Watson protested.

"Oh?" Lestrade leveled a dubious eyebrow.

"For starters, how long is it?"

"With or without the tail?"

"…well…with."

"Two foot, two inches."

Watson paused. "That leaves out the Goliath frog…it only gets _one_ foot and doesn't have a tail. What color is it?"

"Have you ever seen the bottom of Chiswick in midsummer?"

Watson cleared his throat. "Eyes?"

"Beady, small, and barely used."

Watson was going to face down his opposition if it killed him. "Is it confined to water?"

"Well…it _seems_ to be." Lestrade answered slowly. "I'm not completely certain."

"Is it nocturnal?"

"If it is, there's no telling."

"And it's been eating insects and spoiled meat."

"It seems to be as finicky as a drunken hog."

Watson gave up. "Would you mind if I took a look at it?"

"Be my guest. It looks better on an empty stomach anyway."

Left alone, Holmes was able to read even faster. At least for two more pages. A quiet murmur of Lestrade and Watson floated down the hallway as things were discussed.

Watson's uneven tread returned to the doorway. "Holmes?" He lifted his eyebrows. "A moment of your time, please."

Holmes looked up impatiently. "What is it, Watson?"

"You said you needed a sample…just one sample?"

Holmes absorbed that a moment. The book clapped shut in his hands and he weightlessly left the settee. Lestrade quickly stepped back to make room.

It was an interesting view to say the least. Lestrade's boys were back against the wall, looking curious, worried, and protective at the same time. Watson was standing well back from the bathtub, and Lestrade simply waited. In the bottom of this artificial pool a peculiar-looking creature was pacing: up and down it circled the bottom of the tub, its short legs barely adequate for the locomotion of its long, flat body.

Holmes let the silence draw out.

"Where, I might ask, gentlemen," he looked at the boys. "Did you find this interesting specimen?"

"At the Serpentine today." Nicholas piped up. "Well, I didn't find it…it was Tommy and Georgette."

"Tommy and Georgette? But you were able to bring it home?"

"They didn't want the teacher to catch them with it. So I traded them my lunch."

"The one thing that'd keep you from food is a new beast." His father said under his breath.

Holmes knelt further to peer closer to the creature. "It appears to be a salamander, but I'm sure I've never seen one of such…proportions."

Lestrade was about to say something—but the downstairs bell chimed. "I do hope that's the zoo," he groaned. He was gone before the others could blink.

"He can bring a zoo employee to his house?" Watson stared at Holmes, who stared back.

"They're very nice people." Nicholas told them. "All you have to do is find something they want, or they've lost, or you don't know what it is. A good description usually is enough to send a man over here. I hope they let Mr. Fisher come again. He knows all sorts of things."

Holmes blinked. He looked into the tub, and then at its owner. "Am I to believe they've come here before?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Lots of times. There was that cuckoo that was trying to nest in Mrs. Collins' vines…and a blue chicken we found in the rubbish tip."

"That wasn't theirs, Nick." Martin reminded him. "They just wanted it for their agricultural studies."

"Blue chickens are rare," Nicholas informed them.

"I can imagine." Watson scrubbed at his moustache furiously. "I've never seen one."

"What about those funny plants that came up from the cucumbers? They really liked those." Martin remembered.

"That's because it was coming out of the elephant dung." Nicholas pointed out. He was kind enough to explain to the guests: "Someone had accidentally tossed some African seed samples out 'cause they thought they were just bits and straw. The wind carried it into the Elephants' yard, and Mamm bought some elephant dung for the garden because she was tired of dealing with horse, and these funny things started growing out of them…"

"The zoo must enjoy hearing from you," Holmes commented. Watson had just opened his mouth to say that very thing.

"Mr. Fisher does. That's why I like it when he comes over."

Hurried adult feet stampeded up the flight, with snatches of words here and there; Lestrade's softer voice against a man who was much higher-pitched and nervous-sounding.

"My salamander!"

"Hallo, Mr. Fisher!"

"Nicholas Lestrade, I might have known! And Mr. Holmes! Did the two of you collaborate? I can assure you had I known this was going to happen anywhere near the Serpentine, I would have recommended you take that boy with you. He knows every battered reed growing out of the banks!"

"An enlightenment that has just begun to dawn upon me." Holmes answered with a poise one had no choice but to admire. "It would seem he has trumped us both."

"I don't play cards." Nicholas scowled at Martin.

"Figure of speech, Nick. Like 'eat till you pop.'"

"Now we know why the boxes were all missing…the goods, as it were, went into the drink and is no doubt starting a new life in the bottom." Holmes tapped his fingers on his folded arm. "Foolish of me to overlook the obvious, but I had assumed I was being given a false trail. It was a true trail all along."

Mr. Fisher looked bewilderedly to Lestrade, who only shrugged.

"He's like this." The Yarder murmured.

Watson cleared his throat. "Holmes, you were talking about specialists in this case…someone actually specializes in illegal traffic in…" He could barely say it, it was so absurd. "amphibians?"

"My dear man, you have no idea how lucrative it can be!" Mr. Fisher exclaimed. He excitedly dipped his hand in water and gently lifted the creature up to give a quick examination. "There are wealthy naturalists like young Mr. Lestrade here, only they have the money to squander…or dissectionists…researchers…a good taxidermy office would pay for something unusual to stuff and mount as a demonstration of their skill and savoir fare…" He did not notice the look of horror on Nicholas at the thought of someone murdering his newfound friend, but Martin patted him on the back. "A few private museums and animal collectors would be pleased to have something as well…quiet as a salamander. And then of course, there's the Asian Markets and their own black market…" He sighed. "Terrible. They use amphibians for all sorts of medicines and drugs...harvest a lucrative crop from toad-sweat, which is rather hard on the toad, so there's a bit of a run on the imported species…They use toads and frogs and snakes in all sorts of philters and love potions and other vulgar things…oh, he's a handsome fellow! Very much none the worse for his ordeal!"

"But what is he sir?" Nicholas pleaded. "We couldn't find him in our book."

"This, my young friend, is the second-largest species of salamander in the world! The Cryptobranchus alleganiensis. From the eastern mountains of North America."

"Cryptobranchus alleganiensis." Nicholas stuttered it out. He threaded his way around the knot of bodies and pelted into the study. Martin could hear him rooting through the large dictionary his father had bought at an estate sale ("Our house can't specialize…this thing can double as a footstool when it's not being read!").

"Crypto…" Lestrade had been making shorthand notes up until this point. He looked up with a glare. "I'm not going to say all that!" he protested. "What's its common name?"

Mr. Fisher blanched. He turned and with his free hand, scribbled something on the note-page.

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "All right. Crypto…branchus what?"

"Alleganiensis."

"Alleganiensis." Lestrade made a great effort. "It gets easier with practice…" He lowered his voice. "That's really the name?"

"They also call it the "snot otter," Mr. Fisher whispered back in the same tone. "but I didn't think that was very polite either."

"No…no, you're right."

"They eat crayfish! I bet I could raise some in a tub to feed him treats when we go on Sundays!!" Nicholas gushed as he ran back inside. " They can live for _years_! When I'm old enough to get a job at the zoo, he'll probably _still be there_!" The boy was nearly overcome with emotion. Watson did his level best to maintain composure, but settled for pretending to cough into his handkerchief instead. Holmes of course, was pure iron and little more than a quirk of his mouth betrayed what must have been a roaring belly-laugh trying to get out.

"That's…_wonderful_, Nicholas. I'm…pleased." Lestrade patiently patted his son on the head. "Just…pleased."

"What's the largest salamander in the world, sir?" Martin piped up respectfully. "Surely it couldn't be much bigger than this one."

"I'm afraid so, Master Martin." Mr. Fisher smiled benevolently at the smaller boy. "The Asian salamander has been recorded at over six feet long!" He sighed wistfully. "I'd pay twenty pounds for an Asian salamander. They are so hard to find. The waters they live in are usually polluted, and there's such a market for them."

"A market?" Watson echoed. Holmes, who spent more time on the Eastern Docks than was healthy for a European, suddenly had an 'aha' expression which he quickly swallowed.

"Oh, yes." Mr. Fisher said obliviously as Mrs. Lestrade came to the door to see what the fuss was all about. "It's considered quite the delicacy."

"That doesn't look edible," Clea Lestrade protested, but to be fair, she followed it up with: "How would you even skin it?"

Lestrade briefly closed his eyes and accepted that his lot in life was to never achieve more respect from Sherlock Holmes than what came out of the blue in the fit of a cocaine-triggered delirium.


	5. Shikari

"Thank you, mamm," Martin Lestrade politely passed the soup to Dr. Watson. "Here you are, sir."

"Thank you, Martin." Watson had to smile at the boy's patient demeanor. "Do you like turtle soup?"

"I like anything mamm makes." Martin said truthfully.

Nicholas obviously agreed. Despite his extra meals of Barrett's eels in vinegar, he was clearly enjoying his dinner of turtle soup, hot bread, and vegetables in a spicy sauce.

"Flattery is the way to a woman's heart, Martin," Clea Lestrade warned. "Just you remember to back up your words later."

"Yes'm." Martin said calmly.

Holmes watched, dryly amused, as Nicholas did his best to sneak his hand to the bread-basket. Just as carefully, his father silently foiled his attempts.

"Mrs. Lestrade, if I may," Watson cleared his throat lightly.

_And here it was._ Holmes had been waiting for Watson's curiosity to collapse under its own weight.

"Yes, doctor?"

"How exactly does one kill a turtle?"

"They can't move when you flip 'em on their back." Mrs. Lestrade grinned easily. "There's half the problem solved there. Except for waiting for them to quit moving…that can take a long time."

"Ah."

"My compliments, Mrs. Lestrade." Holmes interjected. Watson looked sorry for asking that question. "Is that saffron?"

"That it is."

Nicholas had given up on the bread and was angling for the butter pats.

"Nicholas," Holmes began, and Nicholas all but froze in his guilt. "Are you intending to become a naturalist someday?"

"I suppose." Nicholas answered with the beautiful frank aplomb young boys were famous for. "If it means getting out and collecting specimens and taking them back."

"It's called field work, and it's in the blood." His father said with a faint smile.

"What about you, Martin?" Watson asked. "Do you know what you'd like to do?"

Martin shrugged slightly. "I'm still thinking about it." He said truthfully. "I like to work with paper and inks…but I also like to solve problems. Maybe I could apprentice with my Uncle Myron."

"If you like to solve problems, why not become a detective?" Holmes leveled that question down, bang, like a ship's boom.

Martin never turned a hair. "If I did, I'd be a police detective."

"Oh? Because your father is one?"

Martin had a very finely attuned sense on when someone liked a bit of a quarrel. He smiled from across the tablecloth. "No. If I'm going to be working in crime, I'd like to be able to arrest people."

-

"What a strange case." Watson summarized a rather bewildering series of days neatly. The boys were back in the small guest bedroom/study, finishing their homework before bed.

"I daresay they won't get much stranger." Lestrade passed out small glasses of clear liquid to everyone. Clea moved to the fire.

"Perhaps." Holmes cautioned. "I found two references to two peculiar animal-dealers in your book, Lestrade. But I must ask you what the real name of "Mr. Toadstone" is."

"That is his name." Lestrade protested. "Good heavens. That old gentleman of the docks? I haven't seen him about in years."

"But you would know him if you saw him again?" Holmes persisted.

"Of course I'd know him. We used to sniggle eels together—" The little man abruptly struck his forehead with a resounding crack. Watson jumped. "Oh, no!"

"Oh, no, what?" Watson blinked.

"Eels. He sells the eels to George Barrett! I just bought a cup of eels from him today!"

"Would that be the Barrett that is a forcibly retired policeman?" Holmes' eyes brightened like quicksilver.

"The one and the same. He's at home now, I'll mark you. But he'll be rounding his turn bright and early in the morning. Heads up a different street each day of the week." Lestrade shook his head. "But what makes you think of Mr. Toadstone?"

"He has experience with amphibians, does he not? He is also old enough to surely know a few tricks. A man who can sell eels to vendors would surely be resourceful enough to sell oddities to a zoo or private collector."

"He wouldn't, Mr. Holmes. But that son of his who is nothing but a disgrace would be more than happy to take what his father taught him and--yes, Nicholas?" Lestrade nodded sternly to his youngest son peeping in the doorway.

"Excuse me, Tad," Nicholas apologized nicely. "But I was wondering…if those boxes were all dumped into the Serpentine…"

"Nicholas, Mr. Fisher already gave you a guinea for his time—which you were smart enough to split with your brother…" Lestrade grew even more stern.

"Yes, but…you've got a birthday coming up." Nicholas said ingenuously.

"Good Lord, Nick. Can't you think of a better threat than that? I'm not about to give you permission to go on a salamander raid at the Serpentine at night! There isn't a single street in this ton that's safe from owl-light to dawn!"

Nicholas exhaled like a bleeding balloon.

Holmes' lips twitched. "In the spirit of fairness, if he manages to find a specimen…what will you do with the reward money?"

"Well, some of it for Tad's birthday." Nicholas allowed. "I haven't thought about the rest."

"What, you wouldn't spend all your reward money on your father's birthday?"

"That depends on what I find, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes laughed out loud. "For the cleverness within your honesty, I'll wager you a five-pound reward if you manage to find nocturnal amphibians in the Serpentine during the day."

Nicholas' eyes lit like twin party crackers. "Martin!" He took off running. Furniture trembled at his steps. "Martin, start thinking!"

"Now you've done it." Lestrade told him heavily. "You've made a sockdolager. They'll put their heads together, and they'll find a loophole."

"I beg your pardon, Lestrade, but you and the good wife appear to be jaded on the accomplishment of your son."

"Not really." Lestrade and his wife merely shrugged. "This sort of thing happens to Nicholas fairly often."

"_Fairly often,_ Lestrade?" Holmes repeated.

"Remember the Ostrich egg he brought home?" Mrs. Lestrade asked her husband.

"Do I. Not only did we _never_ figure out where he got it, but no one ever reported a missing ostrich egg." Lestrade shuddered and started mixing drinks. "You'd think someone would be missing something that big…"

"Or that pickled baby alligator."

"Found out where _that_ one came from, dear. He traded a week of street-sweeping for it." Lestrade took a heavy drink. "And it was a _caiman_. Black caiman from South America."

"…horrible looking thing." Clea told them. "All fierce little eyes like cats, and sharp teeth."

"The story attached to it was even worse." Lestrade warned her. "Seems it was mailed to our neighbor by a relative a few weeks before his mysterious—and dare I say permanent—disappearance while swimming in the Amazon…"

-

The following day was just as wet and damp as a London day could get and still be in England. Clouds reigned in supreme majesty, sending the city into a dull, dark haze of smoke and mist and grey curtains and fitful yellow lights. Lestrade was more than happy to come home and checked himself out as soon as the moment was decent.

Clea found her husband with his feet stretched out before the fire, smoking his evening pipe while the paper rested in his lap. "You look content," she said with a smile. "Appreciating the fact that the bath is no longer being sublet to strange tenants?"

"Strange how important the small things are," he said and they laughed. "Mr. Holmes had the lead he needed. He gets his rewards—material and not-to-material satisfaction—and the Yard's another strange example for the casebooks."

"I would say that's as strange as it gets!" Clea exclaimed. She drew down to the empty spot by the settee and leaned into her husband with a yawn. "So, another case and you get the credit?"

"Good Lord, no. I refuse to be associated with anything more to do with animals. I've said it as loudly as I could, in public. I'm not working with anything that can't wear Derbies."

Clea snickered. "What about dogs? They can be leashed."

"Derbies, Clea. It can't wear Derbies."

"Very true." Clea yawned again. "Well…where did the boys run off to?"

"Nicholas wanted to go talk with Tommy and Georgette…Martin of course had to go along. I think he worries when he doesn't know what Nick is up to."

"Can't imagine why he'd feel that way…wait a moment, dear. Tommy and Georgette?"

"Yes, the Mayhews. They're more commonly called the Mayhems…you know them. They're the one who found that hellbender in the first place."

"Don't say that name around the children."

"Would you prefer 'snot otter?"

"I'd prefer that stiff Latin name…what was it, anyway?"

"I forget."

"Oh."

A cozy silence lapsed while they enjoyed the peace of the fire.

"What did Nicholas want to see them about?"

"I have no idea…Martin was saying something about how with the weather, came opportunity."

"Blessed if I can cipher that!"

"You know Nicholas. We'll probably figure out what he's on about after the fact." It was Geoffrey's turn to yawn. "At least Martin's with him."

It was a pleasant, quiet evening and the fire made everything drowsy. Weary parents dozed a bit, but the quiet lasted no more than two hours before the downstairs door slammed open.

"Unh." Geoffrey groggily remembered the pipe in his hand. "Must be them…"

"Little savages know better than to treat the door that way!" Clea rose to her feet in a flash, stomping across the floor in her slippered feet, and yanking her own door open without the least sense of irony. "_Boys_! You have the rules memorized! What are---"

Lestrade all but hit the ceiling and divided like an amoeba when his wife did something she had never once done in his experience—or for that matter, the entire history of the Cheathams.

She screamed.

The pipe was still on its way to a messy demise on the hearth-stones when he grabbed his wife, pulled her to the side, and jumped into the doorway to face whatever was happening.

Both boys looked up from the bottom of the steps, bedraggled like two black-furred cats washed off the roof and into the gutter. Martin looked almost normal save he was missing his shoes and stockings. Nicholas had a swelling black eye and a sleeve half-torn from his shirt; both their coats and jackets were sopping wet and wrapped around something glistening and wrinkled and easily the size of a grown man. It blinked tiny pinkish eyes and waved hands like a baby's as it struggled to escape its prisoners.

"Sorry, Tad," Nicholas gasped. "Do you think you could call Mr. Fisher? Can he raise the twenty pounds tonight? Is anyone using the bath-tub right now? Does Mr. Holmes still have that reward out?"

Lestrade laughed till he cried.


End file.
